I canít be
the only person that noticed in the sixties everybody was
getting tied up all the time. Or at the very least, on the TV
shows I was watching. Someone was always getting tied up in
every other Batman episode, on Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie,
and The Avengers. Oh my Goddess, there was so much fetish fodder
in late sixties television, I wouldnít know where to begin.
Letís talk Julie Newmar in that sparkly cat suit, all six feet
of her in those fabulous go-go boots and little mask. The wicked
kinky things Endora did to Derwood were simply devilish. Agnes
Moorehead was always dressed and made-up like an aging drag
queen on her way to Pride Fest, painted eyebrow raised and ready
to make her favorite mortal prey suffer the torments of the
damned. Lest we forget, Jeannieís evil sister shrinking Major
Nelson and tying him to a rotisserie and cooking him in his own
oven, or keeping him as a pet in a bird cage in her harem.

Then, of course, we come to that ultimate karate kicking, gun
toting, cat-suit sporting, fashion maven, femme fatale, Emma
Peel. The quintessential archetypical template for the
Dominatrix. She had it all going on: aristocratic airs, regal
looks, wry wit, and willingness to kill and then quip over the
corpse. That show was jam-packed with kink. From Steedís obvious
submissive relationship with Mrs. Peel, bondage fetish, surreal
stories, and even one episode where Steed pulls her in a
carriage as her pony boy. If you didnít know one thing about S/M
or D/S relationships, the Avengers was there to instruct you
step by step, as well as kick some serious ass, in a dry British
upper crust way. I learned so much from that show when my first
little sex fantasies were beginning to form.

When I think back on it now, there was no way I could have grown
up any other way. I was fated to a life of kink. It surrounded
me on all fronts. Shame too was in equal part, all around me. I
never voiced my fetishes, and my newfound desires, and wants. My
mother had made it quite clear that was not acceptable at all.
As for my father, he knew the score, he had been around. He knew
that this shit existed, but Iím sure if he knew I might be on my
way to growing up a perv, he would have had something to say
about it. He was not above using a belt quite liberally in our
upbringing, which Iím sure opened up another avenue in my
kinkiness to the city of pain, but more about that later. So I
kept quiet, and took my fantasies to my room, to run rampant on
the upper berth of my bunk bed. Lacking any way to express
twisted dreams, I went to sleep, taking my deviant devices with
me into the mindscape.

The defining thing that makes a pervert interesting is their
fantasies. Very few actually trot their sordid fascinations out
into the real world to play. Most stick to singular masturbatory
scenarios and internet keyboard encounters. I would estimate,
not having any hard figures, that maybe ten percent of all
fetishists ever practice, outside of spanking the monkey. Good,
bad or indifferent, that is just the way it is. Not in my case
of course, I kinda exploded all over the map, and it would take
a major cleanup crew weeks to get all the mess I made back in
the closet. It was too damn late for that. Still, 80 percent of
my time is spent obsessing and not actually doing.

The reasons are many. Possibly the fetish is just too shithouse
rat crazy to repeat in public, even to a jaded Mistress with a
lifetime of experience under her heel. Or perhaps the fantasy is
impossible to pull off without major production values and a
cast of hundreds. Sometimes the fantasy might be too dangerous,
if not down right fatal. Other times, Itís just snobbery on my
part that forbids me from indulging in a twisted scenario. I
would hate to be lumped in with some of the more sordid brands
of fetishists; even in S/M certain broad stereotypes are
applied. For instance, a certain type of submissive might be
into something I too would be interested in exploring, but,
because I know some Dommes either look down on, or downright
wonít do certain things, I would never ask. Does that make me a
hypocrite? Yes, it does. Will I ever get over my hypocrisy and
simply wallow completely in my corruption? Goddess, I hope so.
Leaving one kinky stone unviolated really goes against my craven
glutinous nature for experience. However, if I canít find a
Mistress who likes that sort of thing, then forget it, I am all
about pleasing the Mistress. If she is happy, then Iím happy,
and we usually have alot of fun.

Some fetishists have very specific scenarios and they want to
stick to the letter. Some even create elaborate scripts,
complete characters, plot, and dialogue. I think the enforced
restriction of this kind of scenario is an attempt on the
fetishistís part to help them feel more secure or safe in an
otherwise scary situation. To me, this isnít really a session so
much as workshopping a new play. Part of the fun is the fear.
The anticipation of the unknown. The surprises a creative
Mistress may have up her opera-gloved sleeve. A scripted kink
scenester doesnít trust the Mistress to understand his or her
fantasy and play along. They are very passive aggressively
trying to control a situation they should not be trying to
control. This is called ďtopping from the bottomĒ in S/M
parlance. And it is definitely a no-no. The Mistress is in
charge, and itís the Mistressís pleasure first. The gift is her
attention, anything beyond that is pure happenstance. Or
generosity on the Mistressís part.

I love exploring the fetish world in all its aspects. I have
found so many over the years that I think are so wonderfully
outrageous, they must be shared. Keep in mind, if the fetish
exists, chances are there is not just one person out there
masturbating in the dark to it. There are hundreds, sometimes
thousands. The most insidious thing about this is, the more you
learn, the more infected you become. I catch other peopleís
fetishes like some people catch colds. I seriously believe if I
had unlimited funds and time I could play for the rest of my
unnatural life and never repeat the same fetish twice. Not that
I would want to. The essence of fetish is obsession, and
obsession is best served over and over again, Ďtil the demon is
sated or dead. But it is never satisfied and the game goes on.

The best place Iíve found to search for wilder and weirder
kinksters is Yahoo groups on the internet. Yahoo groups are free
clubs anybody can create and join, providing you have an account
with them. I donít know how many fetish groups are on Yahoo. But
it must be in the millions. Of course there are the basic
groups, dealing with basic fetishes. Bondage, torture,
submission, Female Domination, etc., etc. If one has a mind to,
and is willing to go into these groups and explore their link
sections, whole galaxies of microcosms are revealed. There are
fetishes for every occasion and quirk of the human experience.
What I discovered, after some time of exploration, is the entire
world and every tiny thing in it is somebodyís fetish.

There are fetish freaks out there who are obsessed with stuffed
toys. These fun folks are Plushies. And then there are the
Furries. People who dress up as furry forest creatures. Then
there are the Voriphiles, people hooked on the idea of being
swallowed whole. What goes down is the realm of the unbirthing
chaps, people who want to crawl back in the womb. Or there are
the objectifiers and objected, people who want to become a
variety of inanimate objects and shirk off this complicated
existence, and instead serve an owner with a single utilitarian
or aesthetic purpose. They want to become mannequins, dolls,
statues, appliances, ladies apparel, lipstick, shoes, the list
goes on and on and on.

Being a practicing fetishist and not just a masturbatory one, I
have thought long and hard how to live these improbable
fantasies in real life. There are groups of living mannequins
and dolls that do this professionally as art concepts and
department store promotions. Some of them are truly amazing.

As far as becoming a ladyís personal item, up until last year I
would have said that this was impossible, but since then I have
discovered that where there is a will there is a way.
Unfortunately there is no way presented that I can find where
this can be done for any length of time, without the unfortunate
prerequisite of dying that is required. However, once deceased,
the possibilities open up. There is a company that will take a
loved oneís cremated remains and place them in a diamond press,
and turn the subject into a tiny precious stone. Then the loved
one can be mounted in a variety of settings and worn. I plan on
becoming one of these gems. I want to be mounted in a
specialized piercing worn by a Mistress in a very intimate
place, such as the nipple, or the vagina. What a great place to
spend eternity. Hopefully, I would become a kinky heirloom.
Wouldnít that be cool.

One Mistress with a large stable of slaves in L.A. demands that
all her long-term slaves sign a contract willing their mortal
remains to her, so that she can wear her slaves on her fingers
and toes. Iím proud to say I gave her the idea. I have heard
that certain countries have businesses that will take any pelt
and make custom tailored unique leather wear from it. I wonder
how many slaves are still around hanging in closets or racks at
second hand clothing stores, Last yearís fashion fling
forgotten.

There are people hung up on tight spaces, such as crawling into
dryers at laundromats, or fitting in suitcases. There are
extremes in bondage along these lines, such as people who
completely encase themselves in plaster, clay, plastic or
rubber. One such extreme Iíve seen pictured was a girl
completely mummified in thick industrial shrink wrap, and then
submerged into a mud bog head first, with no oxygen assist. That
is extreme. The girl was fine by the way. It wasnít a snuff
film, but snuff has its fans too. Though Iím pretty convinced
that only on extremely rare occasions has snuff ever been
produced. And when it has been produced, the films have been
seized and the killers prosecuted. Snuff isnít a kink, itís a
sickness. The same goes for any possible scene involving
critters or kids. Folks who stroll this path are walking it with
the likes of Jeffery Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy, and that path
not even the perverted care to traverse.

Imaginary death is a big theme in S/M, however. I love the
female executioner, killer wives, girlfriends, and so on. These
fetishists fantasize about how homicidal significant others, or
perhaps indifferent thrill killers, might end their existence in
every way imaginable, including guns, knives guillotines,
karate, and my fave, slow suffocation. This is called asphyxia.
Not to be confused with Gaspers, who seek the rush of orgasm
during oxygen deprivation. This is far too dangerous to even
contemplate trying alone. Itís ended messily far too many times.
Sometimes to quite famous people, though discreet authorities
hush it up. A sitter suffocates her victim with her ass firmly
planted on the eager face. Be it clothed in an air-proof vinyl
skirt, or in a tub of water, when I die I want to go out this
way. Under some beautiful girlís ass. Itís far more erotic than
one would expect. Or perhaps it is obvious how erotic it is.

Still, itís a toss up which way I want to end my mutated
existence. My other fantasy way to go would be as the main
course in a female cannibal feast. Hunted, captured, prepared
alive, cooked, and served to a banquet attended by hungry women.
An unlikely occurrence for many reasons. But hey, itís one of my
fantasies, and I like getting crazy with my fetishes. And Iím
not the only one. There are dozens of Yahoo groups dedicated to
this fantasy, and more than a few pay websites. The most famous
of these sites is the Amazing Mukis kitchen. Itís all just
fantasy and harmless fantasy at that. Unless, of course, one can
find a human-sized oven in oneís suburban kitchen, or a turning
spit, or a giant wok, or a witches cauldron. I think the
population is safe from kink-crazed perverts cooking each other
up in great numbers. (Itís those damn zombies that worry me.)

Not that real cannibalism hasnít happened. It has. But I donít
believe cannibal websites and groups cause this kind of extreme
behavior. Sick fucks will do sick things, despite all best
efforts to control them. And censorship of this kind of exposure
is like Bowie would say, ďPuttiní out the fire with gasoline.Ē
The harder it is to feed the beast, the more obsessed we become.
Censor the expression and then you got a fucking explosion of
truly demented repressed monsters running amok. Take a look at
the number of Republican politicians convicted of sex crimes in
the last few years and you will see what I mean. Eventually they
go boom!

There are fantasies for every part of the human anatomy. Feet,
legs, asses, breasts, throats, ears, toes, lips, and yes, even
uvulas. If itís part of the body, folks are tripping on it. If
itís worn on the body, people are tripping even harder. Shoes,
garters, stockings, girdles, bras, satin, lace, latex, leather,
and even canvas. That last one blew my mind. Try as I might, I
can find nothing sensual about canvas. Maybe itís the singular
unattractiveness of it that makes it fetish worthy. Beats me.

Uniforms are big: Nazis, nuns, maids, serving wenches of all
types. And then it gets narrower than that. I have seen Yahoo
groups dedicated to aprons. The Germans are really big on
aprons. Eh, itís a cultural thing. Iíve noticed that some
fetishes are very regional and fall along nationality and
cultural lines. For instance, the South of the Border crowd seem
to really have a thing for transsexuals, while the English are
way gone on infantilism. The Italians seem to dig the horror
related fetishes. And the Germans, well the Germans are on their
own wavelength altogether. Everything they seem to do in kink is
very serious and sometimes very weird. Not that weird is bad in
kink, weird is the spice on the tasty seared flesh. Hmm. That
was a very German fetishist thing to say. Cool.

In the Yahoo groups, it gets unimaginably strange. Thereís a
woman who runs a group dedicated to swallowing action figures.
Or how Ďbout the group that worships an eight legged spider
Goddess. Or one dedicated to girls frozen in ice. One group of
slaves that Mistresses truly adore are what is known as money
slaves, or human ATMís. These slaves love giving money to
beautiful women and some of these guys never meet the benefactor
of their generosity. The most severe money slave is the
blackmail slave, who imparts every tiny bit of his personal
information to a faceless Mistress, who then forces them into a
compromising position. Like, say, lewd photographs. The slave
gets off on being extorted by fear of exposure. These slaves can
be rendered destitute and they love it.

There is a secret little website I know of called Nightmare
Street that offers a unique service. For a price, These ladies
will actually kidnap you. Tie, gag, and render you entirely
helpless. Then for the next 24 to 48 hours, These ladies
torture, humiliate and degrade the prisoner until such time as
the agreed upon ransom is met. These ladies are completely
anonymous: They are never seen by the captive and the captive
never learns where he is being held. The things done to the
slave are intense and varied, and the ladies take turns keeping
the slave entertained almost constantly. Itís brutal, sadistic
and terrifying. Itís also completely real. At the end of the
session the slave is packed away in a van and dropped off naked
in an empty parking lot somewhere with their belongings heaped
beside them. The thing the slave is getting off on is of course
the play, but beyond that the fear is the real flavor. I
witnessed one of these kidnap scenarios and it was truly
intense. Even with my rooted fetish desires I donít know if I
could handle it. My hatís off to the brave motherfuckers that
can. One chappy who went through the experience wrote a review
saying it was the best thing to ever happen in his life. It took
a week to recover from his ordeal but the memories last a
lifetime.

With an imagination like mine, coupled with a kink drive from
hell, needless to say reality often disappoints. Say for
instance itís a classic forced cross-dressing scenario, where
the Mistress has helped me dress and then tied me up to taunt
and tease mercilessly. This is all fabulous of course, and Iím
very grateful for the attention and the indulgence of the
Mistress, but in my heart and soul I want it to go that extra
step farther. Something like where the Mistress tells me that
from now on I will always be in bondage and dressed as a female.
There is no escape. My choices have been taken away. And the
Mistress is willing to go to whatever lengths it takes to
transform me from a stupid ignorant male monkey into a beautiful
submissive lesbian slave for her enjoyment and her craven
lesbian friends. I imagine it getting even wilder, where it
appears that money, equipment, and resources are endless and
anything is possible. There are clothes for every twisted
scenario, uniforms, dresses, corsets, hats, shoes, and all
manner of kinky apparel to play out any sick idea the Mistress
has in mind.

Likewise locations are equally extravagant, from villas in
Spain, to dark foreboding castles on the Moors of Scotland. Oh
my, and the devices used to restrain, train, and torture me
almost defy the natural laws of physics Ė cruel chastity
devices, Iron Maidens, racks, stalks, twisters, benders, and
huggers. Oh my. I see scenarios where I serve as a ladiesí maid
or a concubine in the Mistressís boudoir. I see other situations
where I am harnessed and put in a bit in cruel hooved boots to
pull the Mistressís carriage. I dream of long cruel nights of
bondage tied to devices designed to kill, like the crazy
whacked-out devices used in Batman episodes. I see simple
spreader bars, ball gags, and ropes.

I desire my identity to be destroyed and then remade in the
Mistressís image. The fear of watching my body change under the
cruel embrace of an ever tightening corset. My arches shortening
in heartless ballet boots. My breasts growing with the massive
doses of female hormones Iíve been fed, and my penis shrinking.
I want to be branded and tattooed with marks defining me as the
Mistressís property. Imagine being kidnapped, made to disappear
completely, never to be seen in the male form again. Only to
emerge into the light once again a different person and a
different gender.

Imagine having all responsibility of freedom taken away, and
every moment of your life planned and designed by a beautiful
dominant woman. Her wants are your wants. I become simply an
extension of her will. Her most cherished possession, a thing of
beauty and art. The Mistressís play toy, and vent for her
frustrations. Her jester and her clown, and sometimes if I am
lucky, her lover. Or perhaps her friendsí lover, or perhaps
simply their amusement. Now that is my idea of heaven. Nirvana,
Xanadu, and The Elysian fields all rolled into one. And that is
only one fantasy.

Now donít think for one little minute that all of these
fantasies, including mine, donít occur. Maybe not exactly and
maybe not to the wild contours of imagination, but they do come
damn close. Iíve met slaves living the lifestyle and completely
enslaved; and Iíve met Mistresses who are willing and able to
take it to its ultimate extreme. Hopefully not death or
insanity, but walking right up the door at the edge and knocking
loudly enough that it echoes in the abyss beyond.

I met one slave who had a bimbo fantasy, a male desiring to be
made into a simple stupid little airheaded big boobed loose
pussy slut. Well, a Mistress got a hold of this poor shmuck and
did just that to him. She enslaved him, held him captive, she
dosed him up on female hormones, and brainwashed him in the
grand tradition of the Manchurian candidate. She got him
approved for Sex reassignment surgery. Had his face radically
redesigned, with big dumb brown eyes, tattooed makeup, giant
carp-like pouty lips, and tiny little nose better suited to
Shirley Templeís face than a full grown adult. He was corsetted
down to a 23-inch waist. Permanently. She had cheek implants and
butt implants done and alotta other stuff that must have hurt
like a motherfucker. However it was the titties that blew the
mind. To call these monstrosities mere titties is a gross
understatement. These were jugs. Gazungas. Bodacious tatas. In
3D and swollen beyond all understanding. It took not just one
but several operations in Mexico to get the skin stretched to
the size desired by the Mistress. Goddess knows how big they
actually are. But all I can say is DAMN! They were big.

Now picture all these modifications done on the frame of a man
built like The Rock and we are talking one spectacular unique
creature. Yes, it is true that the Mistressís final product
stood out in a crowd a wee bit. What a unique creature to set
loose on an unsuspecting planet. Some would call what this
Mistress did to this slave sadistic, and possibly mutilation.
But I would like to remind them that this was agreed upon by the
slave. This is what he wanted. I donít call poor Bambi a freak,
I call her a work of art. And I donít really feel sorry for her
either. Truthfully I kinda envy her. Bambi in another life was a
construction worker. But Mistress found her a new job. Bambi is
a star attraction on Hollywood Blvd. In a famous strip club. Not
to mention her porn career. Bambi supports her Mistress and they
are a very happy couple. They are married and Mistress always
refers to her little bimbo as the wife.

Fetishes take people on strange adventures. They have the power
to transform, destroy, enhance, elevate, empower, or cripple.
And even kill. That canít be said for much of anything else we
do in life. I mean itís the nature of things that we are born
dying. Why not go for it. It all winds up in the same place
anyway. Anything beyond is just an awkward explanation to your
creator on the other side. As my friend the late great Johnny
Graves the 3rd would say, ďIf it aint scary, it aint worth
doing.Ē